Mr & Mrs Morgan: guilty pleasures in Saint-Tropez

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He says: I sometimes wish I’d married Brigitte Bardot. What’s not to love about a woman who said: “I am greatly misunderstood by politically correct idiots” and “They may call me a sinner, but I am at peace with myself”? But then I recalled her withering assessment of the finer things in life: “I absolutely loathe luxury; it’s the one thing I cannot stand.” And I realised it would never have worked (well, that and the fact she hates men and lives with 300 dogs). Because I absolutely love luxury. And for me, Hôtel Byblos in Saint-Tropez is a towering monument to the fantastical excess that I crave.

Ironically, it was built for Bardot. Jean-Prosper Gay-Para, a Lebanese billionaire, was infatuated with the screen goddess and resolved to create a palace worthy of her name in the town she made famous. Bardot put aside her aversion to luxury to attend the launch in 1967 – and a legend was born.

Byblos is an exotic cluster of buildings resembling a Mediterranean fishing village. The 94 rooms are of varying degrees of sumptuousness, the best of which overlook the glamorous pool scene, where your wealth appears to be directly connected to the size of your female companion’s heels. It’s here that celebrities, models, tycoons and playboys mingle in the very epicentre of Riviera jet-set life.

Christophe Chauvin, the elegant and attentive gentleman who runs Byblos, understands it’s the little details that make all the difference. When I booked lunch at Le Club 55, the iconic beachside restaurant three miles away, he looked appalled when I suggested getting there by taxi. “You must take our yacht, Mr Morgan,” he declared.

“Your… yacht?” I repeated, slowly. “Yes, Algandra. It is very nice.”

I took his word for it, and an hour later, we boarded a 65ft, 34-knot ocean vessel so gorgeously sleek that Celia emitted an involuntary squeal of joy. We sailed round to Le Club 55. And then sailed back again after lashings of rosé and moules marinière. Christophe was right – it is the only way to travel.

That night, we dined in Rivea, the hotel’s new Alain Ducasse restaurant. It was an assault on the senses so insanely gratifying that my body began to spasm with pleasure. My favourite of the endless little dishes that arrived was a sliced white substance that looked like pure fat. “Yes, sir,” confirmed the waitress. “It is lard.”

Celia recoiled in horror. I sighed with delight. I’d finally found my gastronomic utopia. As we stumbled back up past the entrance to the Byblos nightclub Les Caves de Roy, my eyes alighted on the drinks menu thoughtfully displayed by the door. A Methuselah (equivalent to eight bottles) of vintage Dom Perignon was €150,000. Perhaps Bardot was right. Luxury is loathsome – when you can’t afford it.

Algranda, the Hôtel Byblos yacht

She says: It’s at moments like this that I wonder if there is such a thing as too much pleasure. I’m lying on a large expanse of macchiato-coloured towelling on the back of the Hôtel Byblos’s yacht, the Algandra, watching the faded ochre buildings around the port recede into the distance. Just visible on the west bank is Brigitte Bardot’s waterside home, shaded beneath poplar trees.

The Algandra picks up speed and two perfect frills of glittering surf mark our path in the otherwise still Mediterranean – and as the lazy, trance-inducing first few bars of Francis Lai’s Un Homme et Une Femme start up, I feel a deep nostalgia for times I’ve never lived through, experiences I’ve never had. “What in God’s name are you doing with your left hand?” foghorns my husband, shattering my daydreams. We both turn to stare at the offending body part. Caught in the volupté of our surroundings, my hand has been stroking the boat’s lacquered wooden console rather sensuously. Hazily, I decide that there is such a thing as too much pleasure.

Saint-Tropez and the Byblos in particular have a special place in my heart. When I visited the world’s most ostentatious fishing village as a teen, I remember being told off by the car valets outside the Byblos as my best friend and I took pictures of one another leaning against the Maseratis and Lamborghinis parked there. I remember us daring each other to walk through the hallowed arch of the legendary hotel’s entrance to catch a glimpse of the Speedo-clad playboys and lithe-limbed supermodels by the pool. And I remember being shown the exit by a staff member who doubtless mistook us – in our Pretty Woman-inspired Topshop micro-skirts – for working girls. It wasn’t until I was married and pregnant that I finally became a bona fide guest.

This time, however, feels different. Lounging on the hotel’s preposterously luxurious yacht, fresh from my “Phyto-Svelt Global” body treatment at the Byblos spa, at last I feel like I belong. “Is it rosé o’clock, yet?” I murmur to Piers, who’s still yapping away behind me. He stops for a brief moment to inform me that it’s 11.30am, and there’s a burst of laughter from the crew as he makes some joke about having married Gérard Depardieu. “Don’t worry – we’ll get you a Methuselah at Club 55 if you can hold out for half an hour,” he chuckles.

As it turns out, two bottles of iced Château Minuty, followed by a fine burgundy at the hotel’s Alain Ducasse restaurant that night just about hit the spot. Of course, I could still have followed up the day’s drinking with a Methuselah chaser at Les Caves du Roy, but having glanced – and blanched – at the drinks menu by the door on our way home, Piers muttered something about having eaten too much lard and went straight to bed.

Piers Morgan and Celia Walden were guests of Hôtel Byblos, Saint-Tropez. A double room starts at €340 per night, based on two sharing (0033 4 9456 6800; byblos.com).